


Honey (Baby)

by lemon_meringue



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Quentin Beck, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Beck is technically a bad guy but not a bad... guy?, Canon similarities are minor in the grand scheme of porn for plot, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gentle Sex, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Not Canon Compliant, Omega Peter Parker, Oral Sex, Pet Names, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Rimming, he's not a good guy either, i didn't even realize that could be read as in a/b/o beta i meant this isn't edited, no officer i've never seen a beta before in my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 13:56:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20359630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemon_meringue/pseuds/lemon_meringue
Summary: If Peter could think logically, he probably would’ve figured out exactly what was going on with himself an hour ago. As it is, he’s only just now realizing what his body wants.Beck responding by grinding down on him is definitely what he wants.Or:Two hours ago Beck would’ve killed Spider-Man. He’s never wanted to, always liked the kid, but if need be, he would have. Now?Now he’s ready to throw everything away for just this one night with Peter.Funny what biological compatibility and a raging boner will do to someone.cw: attempted non-con not between Beck/Peter in the beginning, dub-con inherent to the genre of 'influenced by heat'.





	Honey (Baby)

**Author's Note:**

> This attacked me and I couldn’t rest until I wrote it and somehow it turned into almost 20k of porn. Sorry?
> 
> All I know about a/b/o is basic knowledge and stuff I picked up from other fics so essentially what I’m saying is that I pulled this outta my ass, hopefully it makes sense/you enjoy/whatever. ‘Character __ Goes Into Heat At An Inconvenient Time And Smut Ensues’ is the tropiest abo trope ever but here we are anyways, hope you like it <3
> 
> * I wrote this whole thing before realizing that there’s no mention of Karen or Tony Stark coming to Peter’s aid, which they totally would, so let’s imagine that this is the Karen-less bosco suit from ffh and Tony is,,, unavailable? 
> 
> (fightmeendgame)
> 
> Mind the tags pls
> 
> \+ content warning again in case you missed it: attempted non-con not between Beck/Peter in the beginning, dub-con inherent to the genre of 'influenced by heat'.

Peter’s having a bit of a rough time. 

There’s a group of guys, hot shots with too many guns and Disney princess party masks covering their faces, causing trouble and nearly killing people. 

From what Peter’s picked up, the group of seven (he thinks) were trying to rob a bank at two in the morning, but unfortunately for them—Peter’s still on his summer vacation. Which means he would still have been out for a few hours yet, even if those guys hadn't waited until “those freak show knock-off Avengers aren’t around”. 

Peter had spotted them staking out the bank from a nearby rooftop and listened in on them going over their plan. 

Either they were really anxious party-goers or the guys weren’t expecting anyone with super enhanced hearing to pop by, because they said everything, _multiple times_, before Peter finally webbed the wheels of their van to the pavement. 

Getaway vehicle secured, he’d tried to make quick work of webbing the guys out and paging the police. 

He wasn’t counting on all the goddamn _guns_. Unfortunately for Peter, because when does anything ever go nicely for him, the guy wearing princess Jasmine’s face has two different automatic weapons and neither he nor his buddies are afraid to rain down hellfire on the vigilante. 

Four of the seven had taken off sprinting for the bank, forgoing their really-not-subtle-at-all infiltration plan for storming in and setting off all the alarms. Peter made it over there just in time to web the security guards out of range and behind counters and pillars, but then the Machine Gun Cinderella had come in and Peter was forced to duck behind a caryatid.

He’s been a little nauseous and light-headed all evening, but now it hits him hard and he has to put actual, active focus into not dropping to the floor. He doesn’t know why his mind is so cloudy or why he feels so weak, shaky like his blood sugar is too low (he ate plenty today, didn’t he? ...didn't he?), but he tries to force all of that out of his brain. 

He needs to be able to think, or the security guards now trapped inside with a group who really have no respect for architecture could be hurt, _killed_. He could get himself killed. 

Without his mask, Peter might’ve been blinded by the debris as the princess robbers’ fury of bullets take out shards of marble from the stone women holding up the building, sending waves of splintering wood from counters and tables flying through the air. Flinging himself between columns, Peter manages to web two of the attackers down to the ground and their weapons to the wall, securing an escape path for one of the security guards. 

A bullet grazes his calf as he propels himself onto the bank’s chandelier, and he vaguely hears the screaming of people in nearby buildings. Okay. So people are freaking out outside, and there are too many weak points in this bank. Peter needs to keep the gunfire aimed inwards. 

He snatches one of the automatic guns and throws it hard enough to knock out another one of the robbers, whose own gun keeps firing as he drops, hitting the chains of the chandelier. The fixture drops with a spray of glass and a deafening crash.

Peter leaps away in time but he’s starting to have trouble making his brain work properly and his already amped up senses flair with pain at the overload of input. He’s still able to use the chandelier to his advantage, however, the way it startles everyone in the bank allowing him to web another robber to the ceiling. The guy drops his gun and a few things Peter can’t be bothered to pick up on, but he webs and whips the broken chandelier at the other criminals who are bunched together.

He aims high and there’s no way it would’ve actually hit them, but the incoming fixture makes them scatter and stop firing long enough for Peter to usher the other guards out. 

He has to duck behind another pillar and he’s ready to leave, to just let the police handle this, because his head is throbbing now and his legs hurt and he feels… weird. Really weird, like his brain and his body aren’t on the same page anymore. It freaks him out and he’s aiming to web himself out of the bank, fling himself like a rag doll to the nearest rooftop, but a cloud of green takes over the front of the bank. 

Son of a fuck. 

_Mysterio_. 

Or, rather, _Quentin Beck_, the royal prick who Peter seriously does not have the physical or mental capacity to deal with right now. 

After the shitshow that was Beck tricking Peter into believing they were allies in an attempt to kill Nick Fury and get revenge on Tony Stark (via ways they stopped before they had to find out), the guy has been a massive pain in Peter’s neck for months.

It’s hard to prevent the head of SHIELD’s assassination at noon when he has a molecular biology final at two, and it’s hard to enjoy a peaceful summer night of stopping petty thieves when Fishbowl over there has plans to steal or fuck up any and everything he can (so long as he profits from the chaos). 

The only thing Peter takes comfort in from the short period of time when he (stupidly) thought Beck was on his side, let alone his friend, is that he never took off his mask. Never told the man his name, and he’s pretty sure he’d be dead if he had. 

As it is, Peter isn’t in the mood to deal with Mysterio, and he’s losing control of his motor functions to a rapidly growing heat all over his body, so he kind of really needs to get out of here, _now_. 

He pushes himself up and makes to web himself out of there when one of Beck’s clouds of green comes pulsating into the bank. It knocks Peter back, sends him flying into the furthest wall and he hits hard. He groans in pain and he doesn’t even register the three (?... how many of those guys are there) robbers left, scrambling to get out of the building. 

The minute he gets control of his arms, he’s shooting webs, practically launching himself out of the bank with a cry at the sharp pain the action sends through him. 

He stumbles, and there are sirens somewhere and screaming somewhere else, tires burning on rubber, guns still shooting, a green haze following him out the broken window he hurled from, and Peter can’t _breathe_. He webs himself on top of a roof and tries to grasp his hair through the mask, tries to pull himself together. 

Everything is hot now inside the suit and he wants it _off_. His head is all full of fuzz and there’s something _wrong_ happening in his stomach, in his chest. His thighs shake, his calf burns from the bullet that grazed him, and he swallows dry. 

When he tries to swing himself back home (after he doesn’t know how long of failing to catch his breath on that rooftop), away from the creeping green mist, he only makes it a few blocks before he misses his shot and barely catches himself, falling ungracefully to the ground in some back alley. 

He _hurts_. Everything hurts and Peter doesn’t know why, he doesn’t know what’s going on. He’s about to rip off the mask when he hears footsteps approach him, already too close. 

Whipping his head up lets him know that one: his head is throbbing and fuck why did he do that to his already uneasy brain, and two: it’s the fucking princess mask robbers. 

Ariel with black (dark brown?) hair slicked back and looking greasy, Snow White with sweaty blond curls, and, what, is that Elsa? The one from Frozen? With a messed up brown comb over and a… smile? The corners of Elsa’s mouth are turned up and the three of them are looking at Peter too intently and he very suddenly would rather be anywhere else in the world but right here. 

“Hey there lil’ Spider-Man. You lost?” Snow White says. He sounds not old but older than Peter, and he’s tall and broad and his jaw is almost too thick and sharp for the mask on his face, and he’s stepping closer, leaning down a little and—shit, why is it hitting Peter so hard that this guy’s an alpha. All three of them are, actually. Definitely, definitely alphas, and that’s weird. 

That’s weird because betas can be that big sometimes. Betas can look like that. Peter could have guessed someone’s second gender, though he never felt the need to, but he’s never—he’s never _known_ before. 

He’s never been able to tell. 

But he sniffles (sniffles? He’s close to crying right now, when, how did that happen?) and suddenly there’s a scent filling his nose, something heavy and thick and it goes straight to his head and makes him choke. He coughs a few times and starts to scoot backwards, wishing he could push himself up and web away, but his body feels _wrong_. 

“Look at that, gents. Not everyday you find a little street spider in _heat_, huh?” Snow White continues, and Peter swallows hard. 

_ Heat? _

That’s not- no- that’s-

“What? You don’t know? You can’t tell, spidey?” Ariel coos (fucking _coos _). “You’re in heat, baby, you shouldn’t be out so late. Omega smelling as sweet as you do... don’t know what could happen to you.”

Dread starts to pool in Peter’s stomach. He thinks he might throw up. 

_ Omega. _

_ Heat. _

He tries to stand up to web the guys to the ground, the walls, anything, but his eyes won’t focus and his hands shake and he stumbles. Before he can fall Elsa reaches out and catches him by the upper arms, holding him steady and pulling him closer. Peter tries to push against him and it almost works; super strength almost shoves the guy off, but Peter’s weak now (why is he so weak now?!) and the alpha hangs onto him. The guy jerks him inwards and immediately drops his head to Peter’s neck. 

Prickling heat and some tingly feeling that makes him sure he’d drop to the ground if Elsa wasn’t holding him up takes over as the alpha inhales. It’s strange and it’s weird and it’s _wrong_ and it’s _scaring_ Peter but his body wants to react anyways.

He doesn’t know what it wants, has no idea what the omega inside him (no- that can’t be right- there’s got to be something else that’s happening here) wants, but he squashes it down as much as he can and whimpers when the very best he can do is try leaning away. 

“Sh, shh, _fuck_, you smell so good, oma,”—Peter’s going to puke—“that’s it, let it happen,” Elsa hushes.

As if the sheer irony of those words is some kind of guardian angel in themselves, Peter feels a weight lift off him. 

(Almost like what the receding end of a beginning wave of heat would be, if Peter was an omega, which he really, seriously cannot be.)

His head clears a little and a shrill cold runs down his spine and he pushes against the alpha, _hard_, managing to dislodge the man from his shoulders and sending Elsa falling backwards. Peter almost does the same, but catches himself with a web to the ledge of the roof of the building beside him.

He’s prepping everything he’s got to yanking himself up there when Snow White is suddenly in front of him, grabbing him by the waist. Peter shouts “no!” and tries to pull the web anyways, but all it does is tug him so that his back is to Snow White’s front and the alpha gets a secure grip on him, both arms closed around his middle. 

“No no no, where do you think you’re going?” The older man taunts. Peter whines in distress and kicks out his legs, pulling at the arms around him. But by this time, Elsa is back up and Ariel is joining them, the other two crowding around Peter and their friend. 

Elsa grabs onto one of Peter’s wrists and his other hand goes to the young hero’s throat, Ariel catching one of Peter’s legs by the ankle and—fuck—the wounded calf. 

“Nuh-uh, spidey. You’re not getting out of this. I suppose we'll forgive you for fucking up our heist, but as _responsible citizens_, we just _can’t_ abandon a sweet thing like you, in the middle of the night no less. What kind of alphas would we be if we left an omega in heat to suffer alone?” Elsa says the words like he believes them, and Peter might’ve been duped into thinking as much if he wasn’t staring with (blessedly still masked) horror at the man’s grin. 

“N-n-ngh, no, s-sto-op,” Peter stutters. Why can't he _speak?!_ His window of opportunity as one wave passed is already fleeing him and he can feel what little strength and focus he had momentarily regained slipping away again.

So much for ironic guardian angels.

Ariel hushes him, Elsa now starting to explore Peter’s chest and neck with his hands. For a second Peter thinks he’s just being felt up before he realizes the man is looking for a way to remove his suit. 

“No! G-get off! S-stop!” He says, louder this time, thrashing around in Snow White’s grip, trying to kick his leg free of Ariel’s hands and push Snow White away from him. He hates the way his voice catches and falters.

It would’ve been better if they ignored him. 

Instead, Peter’s pleas and demands for the onslaught of touching to stop are met with fucking _cooing_, pleased smiles that actually reach the alphas' mostly-masked eyes, like Peter is a kitten yawning or mewling in the adorable way kittens do, and not their prospective _victim_. 

The full weight of that realization hits him just as Elsa’s hand (and later he’s going to have to try really hard to dissociate these creeps with the princesses he’s identifying them by) skims over the spider emblem that would actually disengage his suit, and his panic hits him again with the force of a plane. 

“No!” Peter shouts. He’s loud that time, and he jerks his leg out of Ariel’s grip, bringing both heels to Elsa’s stomach, kicking as hard as he can. 

It works; the alpha with the Frozen mask keels over and almost falls to his knees, groaning. 

Peter thrashes around and keeps kicking as violently as he can, trying to dislodge himself from Snow White’s grip. 

It lasts all of five seconds and whatever ground he almost gained goes flying out from under his feet. Ariel recovers instantly, grabbing both of Peter’s legs and holding them up and to the side, one of his hands wrapped right around the injured calf, his palm digging into the wound. It doesn’t hurt that bad but it’s enough in his inebriated state to make him cry out and mollify his struggles. 

The alpha with the Elsa mask catches his breath and looks up at Peter, ripping the dollar store disguise off his face. He’s pissed. 

It makes Peter whimper at the sight and the influx of angry alpha pheromones has him curling in on himself, hyperventilating. 

“D-don’t, n-n-no-” he stutters, scrambling once again to get away as the brunette all but charges at him. 

The angry alpha grabs Peter’s wrists harshly, jerking them away from his body and leaning close to him, speaking right into Peter’s ear. 

“Do that again, Spider-Man, and I’m gonna break your fucking legs.” He growls. Peter whimpers and cowers away from him. It’s too much, there’s too much happening. His head hurts, his face hurts, his entire spine and his legs hurt and his stomach is ready to hurl, he feels hollow and floaty and disconnected and heavy, like he’s been filled up with damp sand, and the alpha scent is too much, too much, _too much_. Peter can’t _breathe_. 

The brunette Was-Elsa backs off and loosens his hold on Peter’s wrists slightly, grinning, somewhere between feral and fond. 

“Too much, oma? Oh, you haven’t been around many alphas, have you?” He says. Why did he say that—why can Peter feel Snow White smirking against the back of his head, see Ariel biting his lip to cover a small grin. 

(Is Peter talking out loud? Who gives a shit.)

“Try getting his mask off,” Ariel suggests. He’s ducked down and his face is close to Peter’s shoulder and the request gives the hero a shot of pure panic adrenaline strong enough to kick one of his legs free. 

He’s getting whiplash from how fast he’s losing and gaining control of his brain and body. 

The alpha collects Peter’s freed and thrashing leg again easily, despite the way the younger starts to flail and pry with renewed vigor at Snow White’s grip. 

The brunette ignores his reaction completely, opting to allow Peter’s hands freedom in exchange for searching his neck and collar bones for the seam of his mask.

“Come on, I showed you my face. Why don’t you show us yours…” Says the man offhandedly.

The touches feel like static on his skin and Peter wants to scream but his throat is choked up on the overwhelming scent of three alphas all way, way too close. 

To Peter’s utter horror, Was-Elsa finds the edge of his mask. The man makes a pleased sound, fingers slipping under the material and grazing the bare skin of Peter’s neck. Shock and terror take over, and Peter freezes up completely, hands gripping the alpha’s wrists with what _should be_ crushing strength but now must be entirely insignificant. His spider sense goes off so intensely in his head that it's incapacitating as his mask, the protector of his identity (and what, right now, feels like so much more), is slowly pulled off.

His hair bounces lightly free and Peter’s eyes are wide, unfocused and staring uncovered at the brunette’s chest not more than a foot away from him. The only thing keeping Was-Elsa from being pressed against him are his own knees between them, pulled up and angled in a way that’s becoming distinctly uncomfortable where Ariel is holding his calves to the side. 

One of them whistles. Peter doesn’t know which. 

“_Oh_, Spider-Boy, it should be a crime for you to ever wear a mask.” Ariel muses. Snow White makes a sound of agreement and one of his hands slides up from the hold at Peter’s waist, palm flattening against the side of Peter’s stomach and rubbing a small amount. It’s probably supposed to be soothing. In reality it makes Peter taste bile at the back of his throat.

Was-Elsa reaches up to grab Peter’s chin, lifting his face and taking a long look at him, smiling in a way so genuinely reassuring it’s _terrifying_. Like this isn’t _wrong_. 

“You should never cover up a face this cute, sweetheart,” the alpha says. Peter can’t stop shaking. The brunette slowly twists his hands, removing them from Peter’s terrified grip and taking the hero’s wrists again. 

He starts massaging Peter’s wrists through the suit and dips to nose at the younger’s neck again, humming in content at being able to inhale directly from unobstructed skin. 

“You know, some people really don’t like the scent of scared omega. Puts them on edge. But if I’m honest, I think that just makes pretties like you even sweeter.” 

Peter’s going to _fucking puke_. 

“Y-you’re s-s-sick,” he pants, muffling cries to frightened whimpers and trying to move his face away from the alpha’s invading head. Was-Elsa just chuckles and takes a deep breath at Peter’s neck. 

It makes Peter dizzy, nauseous and dizzy and tingly in his fingers and toes. Breathing is getting hard again. He’s not sure if it’s the heat (it can’t be, _he can’t be _) or the alphas or the lack of oxygen alone, but Peter feels like every piece of him is floating peacefully away from the other pieces. His body starts to relax against his mind’s warning and it scares him so much he’s truthfully expecting to vomit at any second. 

“That’s it, baby, just relax. We aren’t gonna hurt you. We just want to help. How about you tell us how to get the rest of your little suit off and then we can take care of you. That’d be nice, right? Just let the nice alphas take care of you, come on,” Snow White whispers. 

Peter hates that some part of him (the part that’s too hot and floating and _needs_ something that he doesn’t know what) is tempted by the offer. 

What if he did? What if he just told them to touch the spider on his chest, let them peel the suit off his body. They obviously only want one thing from him, would they let him go after? Would they be gentle? Most alphas have some prejudice or another about omegas being fragile, and while these three clearly have a shitty opinion of what is acceptable treatment towards another human being, they haven’t actually hurt him (yet). 

The thought makes itself known as some combination of hopelessness and that terrible _something_ that Peter can’t identify the desperate call of, but once it’s in his head, it just grows bigger and faster and suddenly he can’t stop himself from crying. 

The sudden shushing and crooning of the three alphas makes him cry even harder and he can’t stop his chest from hitching. 

Peter doesn’t know what to do, and all three of his attackers have their noses too close to his neck, and there are too many hands on him, he’s too hot, he can’t _think_ or breathe or— 

A wave of green fog goes rushing through the alley like a solid fucking _wall_, knocking the four of them over. Snow White manages to keep one arm around Peter, but Ariel and Was-Elsa are thrown off and roll further back. 

Peter tries to scramble up and his mask is only an arms length away, and as soon as his fist closes around it someone grabs him above the elbow, pulling in a direction his legs can’t comprehend moving, but then there’s another wave of green. 

Peter goes flying into one of the brick walls, landing in a heap, and the three alphas are blown further back. All things considered, the creeps are regular humans, and the onslaught of power plus the realization (that hasn’t quite reached Peter’s brain yet) of who has arrived sends the attackers running. 

Peter’s mind is so slow moving that he finds a few seconds to be grateful, watching them run. 

He pushes himself onto his back and up onto his elbows with a cry at the effort, clumsily pulling his mask back on. That much he can think clearly about and convince his limbs to act on. Things are a little lighter and clearer again, though he’s not sure if it’s genuinely a receding wave or simply from not being crowded by the criminal alphas anymore. 

Either way Peter finds himself lucid enough to finally recognize the goddamn fishbowl in the alley entrance. 

“Tsk tsk tsk, shame on you three. You should know better than to prey on omegas like that,” Quentin Beck’s voice rings out. There’s more green, flashes that Peter tries to register, and screaming behind him. 

Somehow the dots don’t connect and instead of worrying that Mysterio is murdering people (even if they are really shitty people), the hero just lays there, propped up, generally confused as to what is going on but barely self-aware enough to wonder. 

The green and screaming fade away quickly and Peter’s left blinking through the eyes of his mask.

Where is he?

He swallows thickly and sits up all the way, though it makes him feel light-headed all over again, woozy and uncoordinated. He buries his face in his hands and tries to steady himself, confused as to why he keeps growing warmer, why his body feels the need to squirm like something is missing. 

“Thought something seemed off with you back there,” Beck’s voice calls again. He’s closer this time. Peter lifts his head to see the ridiculous fishbowl has given way to Quentin’s real face, comfortable without a disguise considering his illusions have him covered, a strange emotion Peter can’t identify behind the smirk he wears. 

“Got the idea that you were following my guys—no, don’t look at me like that spidey, not _my_ guys, the guys I was trying to nab for tampering with my toys—and thought maybe I’d catch a show of you webbin’ ‘em up for me, but, _man_. I was not expecting this,” the semi-theatrical, casual tone Beck always speaks with bleeds away to something suspiciously close to genuine concern by the end. Peter furrows his brows at the man. 

(Not like Beck can see it, though.)

“You alright, kid?” 

The question catches Peter off guard. A frown takes up his whole face as he tries to stand up, ready to attempt slinging away again. He’s in no shape to confront Mysterio. Especially not if the man tries to play mind games. 

“G-go away, Beck,” he rasps. He barely makes it to his feet before he’s collapsing again. 

To his surprise, Beck lunges forward to catch him. Peter slumps against the older man, then registers that he’s slumping against the older man, then registers that Beck’s got his hands wrapped around Peter’s biceps and _no_. 

Peter pushes himself away as harshly as he can. It breaks the hold, but Beck recovers and grabs him again. 

“Nope, no way. I’m not leaving you here for anyone else like the princess party over there to find you.” 

Peter tries to tug his body away again but Beck holds him firm this time. 

And then—_shit_—green mist swirls around and suddenly everything is black. 

He knows he hasn’t passed out because he can still feel Beck’s hands on his arms, and then around his waist, and then he’s pressed against something firm and _fuck_ that has to be Beck himself, and Peter tries to worm free but he’s so incredibly out of it. He’s dizzy and Beck is moving him somehow and the persistent nothingness surrounding him does bupkis to help. 

Peter can’t tell how long they’re moving, or how it is they’re moving at all. 

His feet don’t touch the ground but it doesn’t quite feel like the only thing keeping him in the air is Beck’s arm around his waist. All he really knows is that he’s getting hotter, with tiny flares of sudden, sharp cold and lucidness quickly overcome by dizzying heat again. 

It’s not normal. 

Not even for a regular omega, which Peter still refuses to believe he is. Maybe this was Beck the whole time. Maybe he drugged Peter somehow, and that’s why he feels this way. Maybe it was just his plan to kidnap Peter all along. 

The hero honestly would’ve rather lost a physical fight with Mysterio instead, because this— 

This is making him sick. 

They slow down at some point and the movements turn precise, careful. Attentive. Beck ducks and his face moves to level with Peter’s and he _smells <strike>so good</strike>_, the scent filling up the younger’s head just like it did with the others.

It’s less threatening this time, somehow. 

Despite the fact that, all things considered, Beck is infinitely more dangerous to Peter than the other three. 

Maybe it’s because Quentin isn’t actively trying to force himself on Peter. 

That’s probably it.

They move through spaces and then there’s soft firmness beneath Peter, the arms around him gone, but he can feel and sense (and _smell _) that Beck is still close. 

Soft firmness. What?

The darkness of Beck’s illusion starts to fade away into what Peter pieces together as a bedroom, but it’s hard to tell. There are black spots in his vision completely independent of illusion tech and he’s still so dizzy. The cold flashes stopped coming what feels like a short while ago. 

Now there’s just warmth, pooling everywhere in Peter’s body, fog in his head and an ache inside him that’s impossible to pinpoint. Top it off, and he’s starting to feel weirder. As in, damper. Clammy where he knows he’s sweating terribly, but hot and terrifyingly _wet_ around his waist. Like he’s sweating up a puddle for himself inside his boxers. 

The wetness and something else that he doesn’t want to think about make him squirm around, writhing in place and wiggling like he can’t get comfortable. Like there’s something missing, still. There’s something he needs. He _needs_ something and he doesn’t know _what_ but, fuck, _fuck_, what’s happening to him?!

“Sh, shh, hey, you’re ok. You’re safe now, I know, just try to relax,” Beck is saying. Peter doesn’t realize he’s been whimpering and gasping at the pain until he hears the (unnervingly soothing) voice trying to comfort him. It’s enough of a reminder that he’s in a probably-bedroom with one of his biggest enemies and he's got to get out right now immediately. 

He’ll crawl if he has to, stumble as much as he must. He needs to get away. 

He tries to sit up, tries blinking away the spots in his eyes and aiming his web-shooters, but Beck doesn’t let him. He pushes Peter and pulls him at the arms until he’s laying all the way down, on the—_oh god no_—on the bed.

Peter panics. He starts pushing at Beck’s shoulders and thrashing his knees up, hoping to hit something, anything hard enough to get the body on top of him off. 

“No- kid- wait, stop, calm down ok, calm down, Spid- stop,” Beck says, fighting to catch Peter’s frantically moving wrists and securing them above his head with one hand, the other flattening against Peter’s stomach, effectively pinning Peter to the bed. 

_Peter’s pinned to a bed. Oh god, no, no no no nonono—_

“Hey, _hey_, that’s _enough_.” Beck says more firmly, and there’s something in the near growl of his voice when he makes the command that has Peter stilling. The fact that his body is listening without a goddamn care in the world for what part of his mind is left to panic is just making the creeping fear worse. 

“Calm down, kid. I won’t hurt you, alright? You’re in heat.” Beck continues. Peter’s shaking, trembling where he’s pinned down, eyes wide behind the mask. This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening. Somehow it feels less disgusting yet more completely petrifying now than it did in the alley. 

Probably because Peter knows Beck. 

Beck tries to kill him a lot. He’s going to kill him. Oh god, Beck is going to kill him. He’s going to force himself on him, and then he’s going to kill him. 

“I’m not going to kill you. I just said I won’t hurt you, and I mean it, alright? I’m not going to hurt you, sweetheart. But, come on, what the fuck were you thinking? Why did you think it would be a good idea to go play hero if you were so close to a heat?” 

(Is Peter thinking out loud again?) 

“G-get off-!” Peter tries to shout angrily but it comes out breathless and high pitched. He tries to demand Beck let go of him and it comes out a pitiful plea. The part of his brain that’s terrified, that’s angry, that’s thinking at all is slowly losing to the parts that have no idea what’s going on but _want_ so desperately, so intensely that it’s all-consuming. 

His captor’s (is that what Quentin is? Is that what’s happening?) hand is too low on his stomach. It’s too close to his waist, Peter’s on fire, it’s too close to his— 

Oh god, Peter’s hard. He’s really hard. He’s probably harder than he’s ever been in his life and he’s about to hyperventilate for real. 

Beck doesn’t say anything for a second. And then, after staring at Peter as he twists around, he leans down. He brings his face to Peter’s neck, so close that his nose touches the suit, and takes a long breath in. Beck is smelling him, Peter realizes. It’s a vague and distant recognition. 

Because after a few moments of the alpha (_alpha _) breathing him in, Peter can’t deny with any part of him that it feels good. 

He’s freaking out and barely has the energy or coordination to do so, but it feels good. 

Beck doesn’t pull back when he speaks again. “Why have you never smelled like this before? Why have I never smelled that you were an omega?” 

Peter just whimpers and leans his head back, exposing more of his neck. A voice doesn’t want him to, because this is _Mysterio_ for fucks sake, but too much of him is lost in how _right_ it feels to have an alpha’s nose and mouth near his throat. 

Of course, when Beck pulls away (it seems like a hardship for him), Peter comes back to himself a little more, trying feebly to break free once again (when did he stop?). 

“Is this your first heat?” 

The question hurts. Peter just turned twenty; most omegas present when they’re fifteen or sixteen. Even the “late bloomers” will present before they’re eighteen. Alphas present around the same time, too, so Peter was convinced—no, he _knew_ he was a beta. He knows he is a beta. 

If he had a clear head, the possibility that the spider bite had delayed or changed or otherwise messed with his second gender would be nagging him.

But he doesn’t have a clear head, and all he can think about other than the raging need in his body for _something_ is that he’s a beta. He has to be a beta. Peter Parker, aka Spider-Man, is a beta. 

Except, now he’s... not, is he? 

There’s too much input again and Peter doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to answer that question, he doesn’t want to be here, he doesn’t want anything that’s happened tonight to have happened. He wants to go home, he wants to get out, he _needs_ that _s__omething_ but god_dammit_ he doesn’t know what it is!

Peter’s overwhelmed. He whines and tries to twist out of Beck’s grip, but the man just lets go of his wrists and puts both hands on Peter’s hips, pinning him down firmly. 

Peter tries to push him off by the shoulders and Beck doesn’t budge. 

“Answer the question. Is this your first heat?” Beck repeats. He’s doing the thing again with that edge, that growl in his voice that makes Peter feel like his very bones are shaking and his lip quivers behind his mask. He’s nodding before he can stop himself, whimpering pitifully at the admission.

He still has coherency enough to notice that Beck is trying to control his breathing, but for the life of him Peter can’t figure out what’s got the man worked up. 

“Ok,” Beck begins, shifting his weight and keeping Peter securely down on the bed. “Okay. You may be a pain in my ass as Spider-Man, but if I’m going to bury you six feet under, it’s going to be in a fight. A real, fair fight. Not while you’re helpless in heat.” 

Peter groans at that. He can always find his voice to gripe. 

“‘m n-not help-” 

“Yes you are, sweetheart, you can’t be stubborn about this, alright?” Beck cuts him off. Peter just groans miserably and it comes out high and needy and he doesn’t know what to do about it but it’s so hard to think. He doesn’t want to think. He just wants—_fuck_, he still doesn’t know. 

“I would ask if you have an alpha who can help you, but given that this is your first heat, I doubt there is one, correct?” 

Peter isn’t sure why his face warms even further with embarrassment when he nods again. 

“I need words, baby.” Beck requests. 

Peter mumbles and holy hell is it hard to breathe in this suit. Who made this suit? It’s hot as fuck in here, it’s too hot and breathing enough to speak is too difficult, he needs the mask off. He needs, oh god, he needs the mask off now. He should’ve just left it off because honestly? Oxygen has never felt harder to take in.

He fumbles trying to peel the fabric away from his neck and Beck eventually gets the picture, one hand leaving his stomach to help him out. They toss the mask to the side together, and Peter doesn’t have the brain power to realize that even without a name, he’s definitely just outed himself to his enemy. 

But Beck (alpha) asked for words. 

“Right, yeah, I-I don’t- n-no alpha,” he stutters. It’s a lot easier to breathe and speak without the mask but now Beck smells even stronger. He smells good. The princess disguise robbers smelt like alphas, heavy and thick, except they made him feel all things bad down to his core when they took his mask away. Beck smells different. His scent is smooth and kind of rich. It’s not suffocating. 

In fact, Peter would kind of like to drown in it. 

Beck doesn’t say anything, just stares at Peter’s face. The hero wonders why and tries to meet his eyes, but can’t hold the contact for long, looking away, squeezing his closed, squirming in place as much as Beck’s grip allows. 

“You’re beautiful,” Beck says suddenly. Peter’s breath catches and his eyes snap to Beck’s. 

What?

“I said you’re beautiful,” the older man repeats. (Thinking out loud.) The compliment doesn’t drip mockery and make him sick like the comments about his appearance did in the alley.

Peter swallows thickly and Beck’s eyes follow the movement, and out of nowhere, the oscillating waves of warmth and fogginess cease. 

Instead, Peter’s hit by one forceful wall of _something_ that hurts in his lower back and his shoulders and his neck, throbs in his head, but makes his entire waist and hips feel burning hot. There’s something, something _wrong_ with his.... His suit feels really wet now. Not sweaty wet, like the rest of his body. But like there’s something very specifically wet and hot going on in his underwear, in his ass, and it’s, fuck, it’s so uncomfortable but it’s not even gross. 

Feels like it’s supposed to be there but something is missing still. 

Is it sweat? Is he sweating that much? 

It’s so hot in here. 

“That’s your heat, baby. It’s making you really warm. You should,” Beck swallows hard, “you should take off the suit. I’ll- I’ll get you some ice, some water and ice packs to cool down.”

The older man starts to pull away, then, and Peter reaches out for him at the sudden pain. He needs Beck close. That’s, ok, that's a good start. Identifying the needs. First and foremost, he needs Beck close. Very close. Closer than this—this isn’t close enough.

He’s not sure when No Mysterio Bad turned into Yes Alpha Need but he doesn’t want Beck to move away and whimpers as the man starts sitting back. 

“Ok, ok, shh, I’m here,” Beck consoles, dropping back down. He keeps one hand on Peter’s waist and leans lower than before, slowly moving his other hand up to caress Peter’s cheek. 

Fingers slide into his hair and through the strands, gently skimming down Peter’s jaw and stroking at his neck. The sensations are amazing—like a balm to the way Peter’s burning up, leaving behind pleasant warmth that feels right. Beck’s touch is soft and soothing, and when his fingers lightly rub where the mating gland on Peter’s neck that was never there before has swollen up, Peter _moans_. 

The sound is completely foreign to the young hero and he doesn’t care at all. 

Beck bites his lip and closes his eyes, his breath halting at the noise. Peter feels something similar to confusion and awe. Confusion because, hold on, is Peter affecting him? And awe because, oh wow, that’s hot. 

Shit. Beck’s hot. 

Peter’s little crush was easily ignored when they’d first met and even more easily repressed when they became enemies, but it has never been more blaring in Peter’s face than it is right now. 

Beck is _hot_. 

The room smells. It smells sweet and sticky like Peter and also like something earthy, the heavy, smooth scent of Beck and Peter just wants to bask in it. He’s getting it, slowly—starting to understand what his body needs so bad. 

Touch. 

Beck’s touch. 

Peter wants Beck to touch him. 

_Fuck_ he smells good. 

Beck just laughs breathlessly and nuzzles at Peter’s temple, making the hero melt into the action. “You smell really, really good, too.” The older man says. 

Peter honest to god can’t tell when he’s thinking or talking anymore but he doesn’t care. 

“Okay, sweetheart, here’s what we can do.” Beck begins. His voice is steady but there’s something, a lilt at the edge of his tone that suggests he feels anything but stable. “I’m not taking you home, because there’s no way you live anywhere that’s safe for an omega in heat to be alone. You’re too inexperienced and this is hitting you too hard and your smell is too strong, you wouldn’t make it through this without some alpha prick finding you.” 

[ Beck has to stop a growl at the idea of any other alpha seeing the boy like this; any other alpha touching him. He’s so swept up in that feeling, that sense that absolutely _no one else_ is allowed to touch (t)his omega, that he doesn’t spare a thought right now to worry about where the fuck that raging possessiveness came from. ]

“So you can either stay here and I’ll get you some ice, and try to keep you as safe and comfortable as possible," [ _until you're stable enough for me to kill you fairly _] "or…” Beck pauses. 

“Or what?” Peter prods. It’s an almost desperate request for other options, because nothing he’s faced with right now is appealing. He wants, fuck, he’s still not sure, but it’s not for Beck to get him ice. He wants more touching. He wants— 

“Or I could help you.” 

“H-help me?” Peter looks up with wide eyes. Beck nods. 

“Do you know what I mean by that?” 

Peter tries to clear his head again. Somewhere, very deep down, he knows that an alpha “helping” an omega in heat means sex, which has aftermath and repercussions on multiple levels and in many ways, _especially_ for the two of them. But all his hormone-high and distressed, distracted brain can come up with is that an alpha is offering to help. 

An alpha is offering to help. Which means the pain and confusion and senses that something is wrong and missing will all go away, because alpha will fix it. Alpha will take care of it. 

Beck nods. “Yeah, that’s right. Alpha will take care of it, alpha will take care of you, but only if you want me to.” 

It sounds different from when the creepy Snow White had said it. It sounds good coming out of Beck’s mouth. 

Peter doesn’t even think about it. Even though some parts of his brain are screaming at him, he can’t tell what they’re saying and he just nods. He nods and whimpers and tries to grab Beck’s hands. 

“You want me to help?” The man confirms. Peter nods again. “Words, honey. Tell me.” 

Peter breathes out shakily, biting his lip to keep it from quivering. Is he crying?

(Is he still crying? As in, has he stopped since he started in that alley way? If he did, it wasn’t for long.)

“Y-yes, p-please help,” he pleads. Beck bobs his head in acknowledgement, lowering both of them until Peter is pressed into the mattress with Beck’s weight on top of him. 

The older man sniffs at Peter’s pulse point again, then starts licking it gently, kissing all over the sensitive spot and the rest of the hero’s neck. 

Peter moans and juts his hips up, and, _oh_. 

_Oh_.

If Peter could think logically, he probably would’ve figured out exactly what was going on with himself an hour ago. As it is, he’s only just now realizing what his body wants. 

Beck responding by grinding down on him is definitely what he wants. 

The friction is fucking _incredible_. 

Beck rubs against Peter through, _oh man_, the Mysterio get-up that he’s still wearing. There’s nothing between Peter’s hard-on and the firmness of Beck’s padded bulge but the _very_ thin poly-synthetic fibers of his suit (and very wet boxers) and it feels so good, sending pleasure rolling through him, the addictive soothing that comes with Beck’s touch lighting him up and finally offering some calm from the restlessness and need of heat. 

It’s good, it’s a relief, but it very quickly becomes not enough. It’s only a matter of minutes before Peter realizes Beck’s rhythmic grinding and his own helpless, desperate bucking aren’t what he needs. Close, but that’s not it. 

“M-more, please, n-need more,” he pants. His hands cling to Beck’s shoulders and he whines in want, breathless sighs and sharp gasps at the way Beck feels against him. Hot and firm and _so good_. 

The older man’s lips graze Peter’s ear and he lightly kisses just under it, making Peter moan.

“What’s your name, baby?” 

That makes the alarm bells ring in the younger’s head, but he isn’t sure why. Some part of him that isn’t touched by his omega is telling him not to answer that, but… why?

Beck apparently doesn’t have the patience for Peter to work it out. 

He lifts his hips away, removing the relieving friction and now it’s all _worse_ and Peter tries to chase him but Beck holds him down by the waist once more. 

“Tell me your name.” He demands, using the alpha growl for a third time. If Peter was standing his knees would’ve buckled at the sound. 

His head is shouting at him not to tell him—to keep quiet, to lie, anything, but a bigger, louder part of him mewls at the edge in the alpha’s voice, helpless to comply. He needs the touch back even more than he needs to listen, and both outweigh the quiet plea to sense. 

Peter whines and shakes his head even as his mouth betrays him. 

“P...-ngh… P-Peter-” 

Beck hums, kissing the spot under his ear. 

“Pretty. Suits you well. Ok, Peter, why don’t you help me get you outta this spandex, yeah?” 

Peter nods quickly. He wants to argue that it's not _spandex_, but that couldn't be further from the point. And getting out of it sounds like the best fucking idea ever. He reaches over his chest, still panting for air, and presses down on the emblem to loosen his suit. 

Beck helps him out of it, stripping Peter to his boxers quickly. He barely fumbles and only slows when he has to fix Peter’s attempts at getting his own hands and feet out, peeling the thin material away from the younger with a finesse that Peter himself has never known. 

[ There’s nothing awkward about Beck. Never has been, and certainly isn’t now. 

But instead of ally-Spider-Man’s shy quips or enemy-Spider-Man’s shorthand, for the first time ever, Beck’s smooth composure is met by Peter. 

(And fuck, that name feels right.)

_Peter_.

High on a heat and without a whole lot of shame to spare. 

Still, with the wiggling and grabby hands and needy crying, Beck takes a moment to pull away. He looks down at the body beneath him, the expanse of soft, pale skin. The little wounds from the bank fight are nearly faded and the spot where his calf was bleeding is already pulling together and scarring over, soon to be replaced by fresh, regenerated flesh. 

Peter is a vision. 

He’s all creamy skin and lithe limbs, little waist, flushed pink. His knees are shaking and he can’t stop squirming, and the poor kid probably doesn’t even know why. He probably hasn’t caught up yet that his body is practically screaming for an alpha to knot him, mate him, _take_ him. 

He’s beautiful. 

So gracile and so _strong_, rosy cheeks and big, wide eyes, tears running down his face that haven’t stopped since Quentin found him in that alley. 

With _them_, those fucking degenerate morons. The brainless thugs who were scaring him, going to _hurt _him.

Beck doesn’t know if they survived him throwing them against and through brick walls, as killing them wasn’t really his priority at the time, but now he feels a burning in his gut that vows to make sure the three of them are dead.

Two hours ago Beck would’ve killed Spider-Man. He’s never wanted to, always liked the kid, but if need be, he would have. Now? 

Now he’s ready to throw everything away for just this one night with Peter.

Funny what biological compatibility and a raging boner will do to someone. ]

Peter can’t stop moving, his hips jutting up as he tries to force them down, fisting the sheets, his legs unable to keep still. The way Beck’s looking at him like the man is ready to devour him is both turning him on even more and also terrifying. 

He’s wearing nothing but messed up, damp boxers now, and shifting around just makes him more aware of how wet he is inside the fabric. Beck drags his eyes down Peter’s figure, stopping at his waist. He stares down at Peter’s crotch, where he’s tenting the underwear so much it hurts, and his nostrils flare a little, tongue peeking out to wet his bottom lip. 

“Gorgeous. My pretty little thing.” 

Peter bites back a cry and feels wetness sliding out of him. For the first time in his life he can feel the sensation of his hole leaking slick as fervently as his dick is dripping precome, and Beck groans just as it happens. 

Peter vaguely worries if Beck is disgusted, if he’ll be grossed out by it, because Peter’s pretty sure he’s soaking at this point and probably reeks from all the sweat and slick. 

But then Quentin looks up at him like he can hear his thoughts (he’s fairly certain he didn’t actually say anything aloud this time) and smiles. He smiles and it’s _kind_ and _fond_ and full of reassurance and awe, and he leans over Peter’s body to hover above the younger. 

Beck’s mouth drops to meet Peter’s in slow motion, and he almost cries some more when their lips touch. 

Peter’s only ever kissed MJ before, and that was back in high school. He’s never had the time to get attached to anyone else. It's been all school and what few friends he has, and everything else is friendly neighborhood Spider-Man (that, and occasionally save the world Spider-Man). Sure, he’s gotten a crush or two (see: Quentin Beck), but he’s never flirted much or gone on many dates or _kissed_ anyone since being with MJ. 

So it’s been about two years since he’s made out with anybody. 

Beck doesn’t seem to care. 

He kisses with skill and taste, lips soft and insistent but gentle, guiding the way he works his mouth around Peter’s. The older man slips his tongue along the younger’s and explores Peter’s mouth, and Peter can’t keep up, but it doesn’t even matter. 

It’s the best thing he’s ever felt in his life. 

Beck pulls back too soon, giving Peter another peck before he nuzzles his cheekbone. 

“I mean it, Peter. You are gorgeous. Every inch of you is completely beautiful,” he says. Peter lets out a sob at the words. They make him feel warm in a different way and he squeezes the fresh bout of tears from his eyes, wrapping his arms around Beck’s neck so entirely when the man kisses him again that he pulls their chests flush together. 

The older grinds down on him a few more times, rolling his hips against Peter’s in that wonderful but not enough way, before ending the kiss. He pecks Peter’s cheeks and nose, then his lips again, and his chin. Quentin drags his teeth gently over the taut skin of Peter’s jaw and down, licking lightly with a smooth tongue and kissing patterns across the younger’s neck.

He stops to give special attention to Peter’s pulse point, sucking on it lightly, and suddenly Peter’s back arches and he cries out like he’s been wounded, gripping Beck as tight as he can. 

[ Beck pulls back, not knowing what went wrong, why Peter let out a shriek like that. He sees the boy’s eyes squeezed shut and biting his lip too hard, which Quentin amends by dragging the lip out with his thumb. 

He looks Peter over, slender body under him trembling, and his eyes take him to the tent in Peter’s boxers. To the messy dark wet spot over the (rather (fittingly) small) bulge. 

No fucking way. 

Is his mating gland _that_ sensitive? Enough to make the boy come just from some dry (well, it’s not really very dry, is it) humping and a hickey?

He looks back to Peter’s face and can’t stop himself from grinning the way he does. This kid is fucking _perfect_.

“Did you come from that, baby?” He asks. Peter’s face burns red and when he opens his tear-blurred eyes, his lip starts to quiver, and there’s distress and fear and shame laced into his scent and _no_, Quentin has to fix that. 

“I’m s-sor-sorry,” Peter chokes. Quentin shakes his head, showering the boy’s face with kisses. 

“No, no don’t apologize. You’re ok, honey. It's okay that you're so responsive. You can come whenever you want, that’s alright. It's okay that it feels good. I’m not mad,” he comforts. Peter takes a shaky breath and nods, sniffling, and it makes Beck feel all kinds of things he knows he shouldn't. ]

Peter’s face burns with humiliation but Beck’s voice is soft and strong. It makes him feel better and the embarrassment isn’t enough to stop him from grinding up to the body still above him. 

Quentin just smiles at him, kissing down his neck again and licking his gland, making Peter’s eyes roll back in his head. 

“So sensitive. I wonder how many times I can get you off, just from this. Without touching anything but your neck,” Beck muses. Peter shakes his head—he doesn’t think he could handle that. 

God, it felt _so good_ to come. Better than any orgasm he’s ever felt before. But it wasn’t right, he’s not _there yet_, he needs something different, something more. 

“Mmm, I know. I know what you really need, baby. Patience,” Beck comforts. Peter moans but nods. Whatever it is, Beck understands. He can make it better. 

The alpha will take care of him. 

Beck starts to make his way lower, leaving behind the sensitive spot on Peter’s neck to nip at his collar bones. Every touch of the man’s tongue and lips, every gentle pinch of his teeth on Peter’s skin feels like sparks. Really, really good sparks that turn everything bright but settle the itch in Peter’s body for touch. 

The alpha pauses when he gets to Peter’s nipples, just staring at the younger’s chest for a few seconds before giving a quick kitten lick to one. Peter throws his head back at the sensation, desperate, filthy moans spilling from his mouth as Beck continues to lick and kiss the pink bud. 

Eventually he moves on to the other, giving it the same treatment and finishing with a bite. Nothing harsh or rough, but not gentle enough to be painless, and it makes Peter’s whole body lurch, a squeak slipping out of him as he buries his hands in Beck’s hair. 

The man just hums in content, licking the nipple apologetically before continuing his blazing trail of kisses lower. 

He dips his tongue into Peter’s navel when he reaches it, swirling for a second, pulling it out and pushing it back in a few times in a horribly erotic way that makes Peter keen quietly. 

The last few kisses on Beck’s path to Peter’s waistband feel like fire. He looks up once to make the sultriest eye contact in history with Peter’s hooded hazelnut browns, and grins at the boy, something hungry and comforting all at once.

And then he’s taking the fabric of the younger’s boxers between his teeth and dragging the material down his thighs. 

[ It’s easy to get the offending underwear off of Peter’s hips, the way he keeps bucking up like he just can’t help it providing plenty of opportunities for Beck to shimmy the boxers down to Peter’s thighs. He finishes the job with his hands, tossing the garment off to who-fucking-cares-where in the room. 

What he’s left with is Peter, completely naked, writhing before him. 

Fucking incredible. 

(He voices as such, and is rewarded with a blush that reaches the boy’s now swollen nipples and a fresh dribble of precome.)

In hindsight, it’s kind of amazing the kid didn’t figure out his second gender sooner. Not only is he small (and not just ‘small for a beta’, but genuinely small) in general, but a beta wouldn't have had anything less than four inches between his legs.

Peter's cock, freshly bared to Quentin, is flushed and gleaming, leaking steadily and, all things considered, as cute as genitals can be. But the _scent_. 

Beck could already smell the slick on their way to his apartment, though now he can safely say he was wholly unprepared for just how hard the aroma would hit him once there was nothing at all between his nose and the boy’s beautiful entrance. 

He doesn’t think to say anything before he’s pushing the kid’s thighs up and out, spreading his legs and angling his hips so he can get a better view of the hole dripping wetness. It’s fucking tiny and shining around the blush-pink rim, and Beck wants to put his mouth on it and _taste_. 

So that’s what he does. ]

Peter all but wails when Beck drops down to kiss his hole. The light action makes him gush slick and precome alike and he throws both of his hands over his mouth, his entire body shaking with a mildly confused and passionately desperate need. 

And then Beck _licks_, once, then three times after, his flat tongue hot and smooth in a place where nothing at all has ever been before (Peter never thought to finger himself, why had he never done that, he knew he was bi as hell why the fuck didn’t he ever think of that), the tensed and pointed tip catching on the last swipe and dipping into the tight ring of muscle. 

It’s barely anything but it’s so much and Peter can’t help the way his whole body goes rigid and he cries out, sobbing into his own hands, coming a second time to the waves of overwhelming pleasure. 

He’s panting for breath when his second orgasm ends, and Beck hasn’t moved, licking, teasing the line of what could be tongue-fucking him through the climax. Peter falls pliant once more when it’s over, squirming resuming as Beck has to hold his thighs still to keep licking. 

He laps up the slick Peter’s leaking and pulls away slowly to kiss up the boy’s thigh, nipping and dragging his tongue along the crease between Peter’s crotch and leg, moving his mouth to Peter’s cock. 

The younger is still hard and still needy, and he moans brokenly as Beck licks his cock and lower belly clean of pearly come. He’s shocked and amazed into a frozen stupor when Beck sucks him down without warning. 

When Peter feels the wet heat of Beck’s mouth encompassing him, smooth tongue massaging his short length and the ridge of his tip, sliding across the head and teasing his slit, then pulling off and kissing down to his perineum and back up to swallow him again—it’s too much, it’s all too much, and it’s his first ever blowjob but it only lasts a minute or two before he’s coming a third time. 

Peter just sobs, feeling that wonderful, _painful_ goodness tearing through him once more. He squeezes his eyes so tight that he sees red and white splotches and chokes on air as a consequence for trying to calm himself down before the rippling orgasm is even finished running its course. 

Beck milks the come from him and swallows it all easily, then pops off with a lewd, sloppy sound. Peter doesn’t see the man licking his lips or looking half-lidded down at him like he is bona fide _prey_, but he opens his eyes slowly, still trying to swallow and breathe around his choked out sobs, when Beck gently rubs his thighs. 

“Hey,” Quentin says softly. 

“Hi,” Peter whispers, and he cries miserably when he sees himself still hard, feeling his hips jut up again even though he’s already come three times. 

“Shh, shh, just let it happen, Pete. Don’t fight it baby, it’s gonna feel good. Alpha’s gonna keep making you feel good, alright, don’t fight it, I promise I’ll make it better,” Beck comforts. He keeps rubbing Peter’s thighs and goes back to kissing his belly until the younger can breathe semi-normally again. 

[ Seeing Peter obey him <strike>for fucking once</strike> and try to calm himself, allowing himself to relax into the desires of his body (at Beck’s prompting) makes pride flutter inside him. 

“Good boy,” he whispers with a soft smile. Peter’s breath hitches at that, and it could have been a coincidence (his breath has been hitching an awful lot tonight), but it could also be something else entirely, and now Beck’s curious. 

“That’s right. You’re my good boy, aren’t you? My perfect omega, doing so well for me,” he continues, peppering wet kisses all over the younger’s belly. As predicted, Peter hiccups at the praise and his relentless hard-on twitches, spurting out a few drops of precome. It makes Beck wonder if he worked him up a little more, gave him a little more refractory time, if he could make Peter come just by _praising him_. 

He groans at the thought and gives an almost harsh bite to one of the boy’s jutting hip bones, earning a yelp from the omega below him. 

“Of course you have a fucking praise kink—you’re perfect, why wouldn’t you.” ] 

Peter’s ears burn at Beck’s words but he couldn’t argue if he tried. Quentin’s completely right; he almost came again, in another matter of minutes, from nothing by belly kisses and _words_. 

He knew he was sensitive before (thank you for that, radioactive spider) and he knew generally that omegas in heat were extra sensitive, but this—this level of responsive just can _not_ be normal. There’s no way it’s like this for other omegas. 

“You’re right, it’s not.” Beck says. He’s kissing his way back down to Peter’s hole, lifting the boy’s thighs again. “Something tells me I’ve got a little spider to thank for this,” the man says, and he waits until Peter is looking down at him before he _winks_.

What a— 

Beck pushes his tongue past Peter’s rim and the younger cries out again. He nearly jackknives off the bed, but Quentin keeps him down with the grip on his thighs and gentle hushing. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry baby, I’ll try not to surprise you so much,” Beck coos, but he sounds far more amused than apologetic. Dick. 

He prods at Peter’s hole with his tongue once more before slipping it in, slowly this time. Peter moans, long and feminine and nothing he’s ever heard out of his mouth before, his voice getting breathier and higher the longer and more he makes the sound. Quentin works into him with his tongue like it’s a mission; careful and meticulous and with utmost dedication. 

It’s sensual in how good it feels and positively sinful in the way it looks and sounds, Beck lapping up the slick and licking into the wetness, moaning at the intoxicating taste. 

[ If people can be addictive, then without hesitation Beck can say: he is addicted to Peter. This boy is worse than any drug. 

(Instant physical addition has never felt so fucking _good_ before. And Quentin has tried some pretty hard drugs.) ]

Eventually he slowly adds a finger, just the tip joining his tongue. Peter moans and tries to push down, get more inside him, because that’s it, _that’s it_, he <strike>wants</strike> needs something inside him, he needs _Beck_ inside him, more, more more more— 

“Shhh, Peter. I told you, alpha will give you what you need. Just wait a little, honey, I have to make sure you can take it,” Beck hushes, sliding his one finger inside as he does. 

[ He doesn’t, actually. The beginning of an omega’s heat will have them plenty capable of stretching to accommodate an alpha’s knot—especially the very first heat, and _really_ especially when the omega is as turned on as Peter is. 

At this point, stretching him is kind of torture to the boy. 

But _oh_, it’s making this so much sweeter for Beck. 

<strike>He needs to draw this out; it has to last</strike>. ]

It’s weird, having something inside him, but at this point he doesn’t care how strange and new it is. He’s too turned on and too desperate, too loose and wet already for there to be anything but the want. All he can feel is how right this is and how much he needs more. 

He’s pretty sure Beck is cutting him some slack to let him push down on the finger, but as soon as he tries to move his hips more (in an experiment that would have eventually landed him with the concept of fucking himself on the finger), Quentin’s other hand is on the back of his thigh, holding him still. 

“Careful, baby. You’re too caught up in this, not thinking straight," _no shit_, "—you could hurt yourself. Just let me handle it, alright?” Beck offers softly. Peter digs his head into the mattress as hard as he can in frustration but tries to keep himself steady; tries to let Beck take control. 

[ It’s a blatant lie, but when Peter takes it so well? When he listens so obediently and makes such sweet sounds, such a pretty picture, a quivering mess on _Quentin’s_ bed? 

Worth it. ] 

Peter runs his hands through his hair and settles them in the sheets beside his head, taking fistfuls to hang on to and trying to clench down every muscle in his body to keep himself still. 

He doesn’t have enough coherent thought to realize how counterproductive it is for Beck’s goal of prepping him until the older man tells him as such. 

“You gotta relax, honey. Just relax, there you go, there’s my perfect boy.” 

Peter breathes in as deep and long as he can and lets the air out as slowly as possible, shaking and hiccuping as he tries to calm down. 

It’s barely effective; he’s still a wriggling, whimpering and gasping mess, oozing precome and slick alike. 

By the time Beck works up to three fingers, moving them so slow and careful to “avoid hurting” Peter, the younger thinks he’s going to go crazy. 

He tries to say as much and Beck just moves so he can loom over Peter’s body, still fingering him, and peppers kisses to his chest, neck, and face. 

“I know, sweetheart, this is really overwhelming for you, but we’re almost to the part where it all fits together, alright? Just a little longer, Peter, and you’ll feel better,” Quentin assures him. Peter nods, choking around a sob, and Beck comforts him with a deep kiss. Peter wishes he could speak more, and more clearly. Wishes he could tell Beck nice things like the older man says to him. 

“Ok, Pete. Do you know how this works? Ever done this before?” Beck asks. 

[ And suddenly he’s backhanded by the realization that he didn’t ask before, because—oh god, could this be Peter’s first time? 

He’s not sure what to think. The idea that Beck, Peter’s _enemy_, could be taking such an angel’s virginity is both horrifying and makes Beck’s dick twitch, oozing precome in the confines of his costume. 

He needs to get that off, like, twenty minutes ago. He wants all his skin on Peter’s, wants to touch every inch of himself to every inch of this kid, wants the boy to smell like him, _wants to leave a mark on him_. ]

Peter shakes his head, hoping that won’t be a problem. Quentin’s been so nice and guiding so far, surely Peter being a virgin isn’t an issue. 

Right? Beck must be able to sense or smell his insecurity, because he nuzzles close to Peter’s jaw and licks the skin there, lapping at the junction just below his ear before biting down there and sucking. It stings ever so slightly but it feels heavenly and Peter moans at the feeling of Quentin giving him a hickey. 

“Ever done anything _like_ this before, then? Any kind of sex with anyone else? Boy, girl... silicone…?” 

Peter blushes harder but shakes his head, seeking out Beck’s lips. The man kisses him and groans into it, like he’s in pain, but the room is absolutely saturated with what Peter now realizes is aroused alpha to pair with the omega heat. 

“Have you ever been touched before, even?” Quentin prods. Peter wishes the man wasn’t so hung up on his inexperience, but he shakes his head in answer nonetheless. 

Quentin moans low and growls deeply, the sound running electricity down Peter’s spine and making a gob of slick spill out from around the man’s fingers, still buried inside the hero. 

“So this is your first time for, what. Everything?” 

Peter almost nods, but then turns to look at Beck as much as he can. 

“N-not kissing,” he breathes unsteadily, “I’ve kissed before.”

He’s not expecting Beck to laugh. 

It’s not a cruel sound, but one of genuine surprise and humor and a little bit of awe, and he turns to kiss Peter suddenly, then lavishes the boy’s face in more little eskimo kisses. 

“You’re so sweet, fuck, you’re so precious. My precious omega,” Beck coos. A few moments later and the confusing jolt of authentic joy is replaced by another heavy wave of arousal, as Beck starts to lick and suck all over Peter’s neck. He noses his way back to the boy’s over-sensitive mating gland and licks it softly, just inhaling deep and long. 

He curls his fingers and grinds the pads down on a thrust into Peter’s hole, targeting a bundle of nerves he’d danced around while fingering him, and the younger is finally properly acquainted with his prostate. It makes him see stars and he shrieks again, back making a bow as he comes. 

Quentin pets him through it, massaging the spot gently and nibbling on his gland so that the ride out of his orgasm is long, the boy’s body still tensed, mouth still gaping, breath still stolen for long after he’s finished shooting short ropes of come.

When Peter does hit the end of it, after letting the entire climax roll through him just like Beck had asked him to, he starts crying again, hiccuping tears and coughing to breathe as the overstimulation of Beck’s continued assault overwhelms him. 

“T-t-too much-” he whines, hands tangling in Beck’s hair again. Beck just keeps going, kissing the special spot on his neck and whispering praise and encouragement to him, stroking his prostate. 

“You’ve never had your sweet spot touched before, baby, I want you to feel it more before we move on,” he explains. He keeps the touches gentle and his voice soft but firm and he soothes the boy through the blatant overstimulation. 

[ It’s not a lie, really, but it doesn’t quite carry the same accuracy as the alternative: “I want to keep making you cry from feeling this good until you’re so overwhelmed you forget your own name”. ]

True to the miraculous responsiveness and recovery of Peter’s enhanced omega body, he only has to endure the abuse to his most sensitive spots for a few minutes before he comes again. 

[ Beck thinks he’s at five, now, but he probably could be keeping better count than he is. ]

The orgasm is almost entirely painful and is completely unsatisfying, wracking his overstimulated nerves with a rapid, powerful rush off input and sensation that leaves him struggling to breathe more than he has at any other point in the very eventful night. 

Beck lays off after he milks the climax from his boy, pulling out his fingers and reluctantly leaving the pulse point on Peter’s neck in favor of kissing his forehead, whispering more praise and comfort while the hand not soaked in Peter’s slick rubs soothingly over the parts of his torso not covered in come. 

He gives Peter a few minutes to calm down, though, in a heat, there really is no such thing, especially when Beck _still_ hasn’t fucked the kid yet. But he lets him breathe, even as his hips continue to shift and his poor cocklet remains hard, until Peter’s able to speak and tell Beck that he’s ok and ready for more. 

“That’s my boy,” Beck preens, kissing Peter with smiling lips. 

[ The confusion on Peter’s face when Quentin pulls away is, admittedly, adorable. He looks lost and nervous and damn near _hurt_ so fast, the worry overtaking him and Beck sits himself up. 

“It’s ok, Petey, I just have to get out of this get-up first,” he consoles. Peter nods in understanding, because he is a reasonable, clever boy, but the logic-less omega instincts in charge are clearly distressed at the distance Beck has to put between them in order to strip. 

He’s a little concerned, actually. He’s been with omegas before, even a few in heat, and has certainly read enough and met enough people to know that this isn’t a regular heat. 

If Peter was a regular omega, or, if Peter was a regular omega who happened to also have super powers (as one does), he could’ve gotten away from those assholes who attacked him. He would be able to think more clearly and he’d definitely have more control over motor functions. 

Granted, just like an alpha’s core instincts and any alpha in rut, it can be really hard for an omega to resist the desires and natural urges of their second gender. People in heats and ruts are considered inhiberated for a very, very good reason. They make decisions, say things, give into compulsions that they otherwise wouldn’t, but. 

To this extent?

It might have been more realistic considering there were three alphas overwhelming him with pheromones in that alley and he’s never experienced any type of omega hormones at all.

But Beck is pretty certain that if Spider-Man (spider-_boy)_ had the (minor, yet definitely present) remaining sense most normal omegas in heat do, he would not be about to willingly have sex with Mysterio. 

Quentin strips out of the suit, all its parts and padding and layers, the biggest, flashiest reminder of who Peter is with right now and what they’re doing, and the boy is unfazed. 

Or, not unfazed. 

If the moaning and reaching out and wriggling about and desperate rocking of his hips are any indication, he is very affected by watching Quentin strip naked. 

But he’s not scared, or resistant. 

He just _wants._

And god, fuck, if Beck doesn’t want him too. ] 

Quentin looks absolutely sculpted under his clothes, the muscles of his arms and abs well defined but not intimidatingly so. He has coarse chest hair and, _oh shit_, he is—he is definitely an alpha. 

That is definitely an alpha dick. 

Beck laughs again, that burst of authentic humor that confuses the hell out of Peter until he realizes he spoke aloud once more. 

“It sure is, sweetheart. You ready to feel it? It’s going inside you, baby. Gonna fill you up just right, just like you need,” Quentin says. He lowers himself back over Peter, who drops to the bed with a desperate groan. He needs this. He needs this, like, two hours ago. 

“Quentin, please,” he whimpers. Beck seems pleased by the begging, so Peter does it again, picking up a mantra of “please, more, Beck, I need you” until the alpha is finally, _finally_ positioned at Peter’s hole. 

The younger has his legs hiked up and wrapped around Beck’s midsection, the man leaning over him, propped up only up to his elbows, so the two are sharing air and frantic kisses while Quentin lines up. 

He kisses the crown of Peter’s head and down to his temple, ducks his head, nuzzling into the boy’s hair and neck and face, breathing in deep the scent of needy omega, of _Peter_. 

Peter tucks his face into the crook of Beck’s shoulder and wraps his arms around the man’s neck, holding him close, trying not to wiggle or beg too loud but so desperate that he can’t fucking _think_ anymore. 

With one last kiss to the cheek, Beck pushes in. 

There’s barely a second of resistance before Peter’s hole lets him inside, growing tighter around him and clenching down like all the boy’s body wants is to draw Beck in and never let him go. 

[ It’s not far from the truth. ]

Peter cries out at first, when the blunt head is first breaching his virginal rim, but the heat and unnecessary prepping did him well. There’s a stretch, and Beck feels huge inside him (because he _is_ huge), but it feels right. Like the burning that was eating away at his body is finally being soothed and replaced by an all-consuming heat—but a _good_ kind this time. 

This time the warmth is like a blossoming flower, comforting, like shots of pleasure and Peter thinks he’s choking on Beck’s length but after one of the longest, toughest nights of his life, he can actually _breathe_ again.

[ Quentin pushes in slowly, taking Peter apart inch by inch, but he doesn’t stop completely. He keeps forcing his length inside the magnificently tight, wet hole, feeling it pull him in, close up around him. It’s heavenly, it’s heaven, and Peter feels so good, his body so accepting of the alpha it’s been longing for.

It’s perfect. Peter’s _perfect_. 

Sinking down, making his way to the base of his cock, sheathing himself inside the hot canvas that makes him feel more alive than he has in _too damn long_, Beck thinks: how is he supposed to let this go? ]

There’s a sting to it, kind of, but it’s spread out and dull and feels more like the satisfying burn of scratching an insatiable itch than it does actual pain. His body knows what to do. How to let the intrusion in and then close up around every inch it gains, trying to drag Beck into him and keep him there. It feels right, god, it feels _right_. 

Beck finally reaches the end of his cock, burying himself to the base inside Peter. The feeling of Beck’s hips stopping against his own is like nothing Peter could have ever imagined. He’s so full, he’s so incredibly full, it feels like he’ll be stuffed and split open for days. 

Making his lungs take in oxygen is a task when Peter thinks Beck has to be tearing him in half like this, crying in the shoulder he’s muffled his face into, but every breath is easy and full, like this is how it’s supposed to be, this is what he needed to function. 

This is what he needed. 

This is what he _needs_. 

Peter can’t stop crying and Beck can’t stop soothing him, praising him for taking it all so well, telling him how perfect and pretty he is, how cute he looks impaled on Quentin’s cock, how amazing he’s doing, how amazing he feels. 

The all-consuming _rightness_ of finally being filled up like this, of having an alpha’s cock inside him, almost makes Peter pass out. The tears force their way out through his closed eyes and he hiccups, fingers slipping on Beck’s back as he tries to cling with shaking hands to perspiring skin. 

[ There’s a short time where Beck doesn’t move. He just holds the position, completely inside Peter with the younger’s legs wrapped around him, the hero’s body quivering and clinging to him and radiating that intoxicating heat and smell. Beck could live in Peter’s scent, bathe in the boy’s warmth. He wants to. ]

It’s only after a few minutes that Quentin starts to slowly pull out. Peter pants loudly and whimpers through the action, mouth moving in wet gasps against the older man’s shoulder. Beck groans and Peter feels it vibrate over his mating gland, still smothered by Quentin’s face until the man’s cock is almost completely out. 

The first thrust back in is slow, but Peter feels electricity move up his spine with every inch that slips back in, his hands and stomach going hot, the “ah-ahh hahh”s escaping his mouth growing higher and breathier over each second of Beck’s re-entree until the man bottoms out once more. He finishes the push with a short but almost harsh snap of his hips, covering the last inch in a quick, rough buck that makes Peter muffle a wail in the older man’s skin. 

The warmth that goes rippling through Peter as he comes is different than before. It’s that new warmth, pleasant and despite how worked up and turned on and desperate he is, it’s soothing compared to the agitated burning prior to getting Beck’s hands on him. 

(Because he’s actually being fucked this time, probably.)

Beck moans low and gravely in Peter’s ear and pulls out again. He moves faster this time and pushes back in faster too, though he’s not moving fast by any means. 

The motions are slow, Beck’s hips oscillating with a steadily increasing rhythm. He moans as he goes, rutting into Peter slowly and gently, and Peter chokes out a sob. It feels _so fucking good_, so right and perfect and satisfying, but he wants _more_. He wants it harder and faster, he wants Beck to move more, he wants alpha to just _take_ him and— 

And... what? Knot him? 

It’s a light, buzzing thought, but the moment it appears, it’s all Peter can think about. He wants Beck to knot him, he wants Quentin to fuck him like he means it, make him feel better. He wants that lock to slip into place, hold them together as it grows inside him. That’s what’s really been missing, that’s what his body needs. 

[ “Fuck, Peter,” Beck rasps out. It feels so good, Peter’s hole is perfect in letting him in but still squeezing so tight, so hot and smoothly wet, all the right things in all the right places. 

Quentin laves at the boy’s pulse point out of nothing but sheer instinct and it makes the younger mewl like a fucking kitten, Peter’s heels digging into the small of Beck’s back. ]

“Beck, p-please, f-faster, more please m-more,” Peter gasps. Quentin makes a sound similar to a cough, like the request was a punch to the chest, and moves his mouth to suck on the sensitive patch of Peter’s jaw that’s just under the younger’s ear. 

“Not this time, honey. Your first time should be gentle, just- fuck- just relax. Let me make you feel good,” Beck nearly growls back. The words are comforting but his voice makes Peter whine and the subtle promise of a ‘next time’ does something to him, making his heart hammer even louder so that Peter can hear it through his haze. 

[ It’s true—Peter’s first time should be as soft and loving as possible, even if he is wracked by the desperate need and durability of a heat. 

So that’s what Beck is going to tell him, even if the reality is that Quentin’s self control is braced on a fine thread right now, and if he gives in to Peter’s desire for more, his thin composure will snap and he won’t be able to control himself, risking going too rough and too fast and hurting Peter in the process. 

That’s not a risk he’s willing to take. At least not this time. ]

One of Beck’s arms dips down and slides under Peter, wrapping around the smaller. Quentin’s arm covers the omega’s back diagonally, his hand grabbing onto Peter’s opposite shoulder from behind. The younger can feel the muscles along Beck’s arm flexing as he uses the strength at his elbow and wrist, almost strategically effective at Peter’s lower back and shoulder, to pull their torsos flush together. 

The older man drops completely to his elbow on the one arm holding him up, so their bodies are pressed tightly together not only by the way they cling to each other but by Beck’s weight pushing Peter into the mattress. 

The total effect is that Quentin gets a firm, secure hold on Peter’s body. After a few seconds in the adjusted position, Beck speeds himself up a little bit more, adding the snapping, harsh end to each overall gentle thrust. It would have Peter bouncing and jolting around in place if it weren’t for Beck’s grip on his body. 

Peter moans in a licentious way, his voice high pitched, definitely drooling a little bit onto Quentin’s shoulder. 

[ Beck can barely see any of Peter’s face or body, the boy tucked so completely against him, but even if he didn’t know it already, he can _feel_ how debauched Peter is. Trembling like a leaf and whimpering, short, breathy sighs and sharp gasps, every delicious thrust inside his perfect hole made sweeter by the beautiful, needy sounds falling from his lips. 

Quentin wonders if the omega can hear his heart beating—feel through their chests how much of a goner Beck is for this, for _him_. ]

Beck starts shifting his hips, getting a slightly different angle on every push in, the pressure and glide of his cock against Peter’s walls changing a little with each movement. It feels like Quentin’s dick is massaging Peter’s insides, hot and fucking _huge _and it’s euphoric. 

And then one angle happens to have Beck’s cock rub over and snap into Peter’s prostate, and the younger cries out, a flash of pleasure taking over his body, making him come into the nonexistent space between his and Quentin’s stomachs. 

Beck gives a huff that Peter realizes is a gratified laugh when he breathes in the smell of pleased alpha. 

“There it is,” Quentin whispers. His lips move against Peter’s jaw and the younger can _feel_ the satisfied smirk. He doesn’t even care; because now that Beck’s found his sweet spot, the alpha makes a point to hit it with each thrust. 

He rolls his hips against Peter’s, grinding into the smaller body and sending bolts of exhilaration through the omega. Some motions forward are more fluid and Beck can rub the entire top section of his length against Peter’s prostate, and some movements are staccato, more rough as he snaps forward and nails the younger’s sweet spot with the blunt head of his cock. 

Beck finds a rhythm in rotating through the unpredictable variations of his thrusts, fucking Peter with a pattern that seems split between the urge to take the omega apart piece by piece and the desire to pound into the younger until neither of them can remember their names. 

Peter loses his breath completely when Quentin shifts to supporting himself with the arm under the hero, resting more weight on the younger and freeing up his other hand to worm between their chests, finding Peter’s swollen nipples and rubbing them gently. 

Beck bites teasingly lightly over the omega’s mating gland and pinches one of the hard buds on his chest, and Peter chokes on air when that makes him come, struggling so much that Quentin has to pepper kisses to what’s exposed of the side of his face and rub his side to soothe him so he can breathe again. 

The older man repeats the trick a few more times as Peter’s trying to recover from his orgasm, stopping only when the smaller needs Beck’s calming touches to make his lungs work. 

When Peter manages to wiggle his face into the crook of Quentin’s neck, mouthing wetly at the man’s collar bone and breathing in deep at the scent of the alpha, Beck’s limbs almost buckle and give out. 

When Quentin braces his free hand on the bed and pushes a small distance between the two of them, Peter’s confused stuttering is cut off by a purely sinful moan and he throws his head against the bed as Beck takes the opportunity to litter the younger’s neck and chest with hickeys. 

Everything feels so good, everything feels so _right_, Peter is on cloud nine. 

Each spot where Beck’s skin is against his own is like the best kind of drug, every inch of Peter’s body that is flush with Quentin’s buzzing and warm with a sensation so heavenly it’s like Peter’s floating, falling apart and drifting and _whole_ all at once.

He never thought anything could feel so good—never imagined there was a way that touches and kisses and having a dick inside him could be so _perfect_ on such a deep level. 

The way Beck moves inside him, the way his lips and touch connect with Peter’s skin, the way he clings still to Peter’s body and rocks them together, sinking into the mattress—it’s overwhelming, it’s not quite enough, it’s driving Peter _fucking crazy_. 

[ Quentin likes sex. As an alpha, he likes sex with omegas a little more than anyone else, and omegas in heat, as rarely as he’s had the opportunity, are a blissful experience. 

But nothing has ever felt like this. 

Beck doesn’t know what the fuck the spider mutation did to Peter’s biology, but it’s a damn _gift_, because this is the best Quentin has ever felt in his life. Nothing else compares—no other sex, no other moment. Nothing has been more perfect and satisfying than fucking Peter into Quentin’s bed. 

He wants it to last, oh, he wants it to last forever, he wants to _live_ in this feeling. But, of course, it has to end. 

Even with an alpha’s stamina, even without being the probably literally greatest thing that has ever happened to Beck, he’s still under the influence of Peter’s heat. There’s only so long he can hold out. Only so long he can drag this out before his alpha’s instinctual need to provide his omega with a knot wins over. ]

Peter feels it. 

He feels the knot growing at the base of Beck’s cock. He can feel the size, the pressure, the swelling hitting his rim every time Beck bottoms out. 

It makes his body damn near vibrate with excitement, his omega bursting through the seams of his mind, anticipation gushing out from his core and taking over his body with that eager desideratum. 

He doesn’t actually realize he’s started chanting “yes, I want it, alpha, yes, yes” until Beck is responding, kissing back up his neck, bringing them close again for Peter to wrap his arms around once more. 

“Fuck, you’re- _fuck_, you want my knot, baby?” Quentin rasps out. He speeds up a little more and is starting to lose control, Peter can tell. It feels right. The gentle-with-a-dash-of-rough was so so good but it wasn’t enough, and now Peter’s getting it. Beck thrusting harder and faster, chasing his own orgasm, pinning Peter to the bed with his weight and mouthing at the younger’s pulse point. 

“Yes, yes, please, p-please please Beck-” 

Quentin lets out a wanton, wounded groan and bites at Peter’s neck under his jaw. “Ok, honey, I’m gonna give it to you. I’ll give you what you need, shit, you’re gonna take it so well, you’ve been so good for me Peter, such a good omega, I know you’ll look beautiful with my knot inside you-”

Peter whines loudly. The praise and the promise make his head spin. Tears still spill out of his eyes and he pants open-mouthed against Beck’s neck, tongue giving short, careless little licks out of nothing but instinct. 

Beck pushes into him more roughly and stops angling his hips, moving whatever way is easiest and fastest, which still happens to have the head of his cock dragging at Peter’s sweet spot with every motion in and out. 

The thrusts grow messy. The steady, calculated rhythm of finesse gives way to instinct, to the wild abandon of the older man chasing his climax, building his knot bigger and faster as it starts to push forward. Peter just hangs on tight, whimpering and begging in an incoherent mess. 

The room is so thick with their scents that they might as well be under water. Beck’s knot catches on Peter’s rim, pressure against the tight entrance stretching him further and moving deeper with every thrust as it grows. Peter can’t breathe but he’s moaning Beck’s name and Quentin can’t think but he squeezes the body below him tightly, and then everything hits the fan and fucking explodes. 

When Beck’s knot finally forces inside of Peter, rolling in deep with the older man’s thrust as he buries himself as far as he can, locking them together, it’s like the world blows. 

Pure ecstasy erupts through them both. Peter feels _complete_, his omega is _singing_, like this is it, this is what it was all for, what he needs. Beck’s knot swells up inside him quickly and he feels so full, like he’s going to burst open, like there’s no way it can possibly fit, there’s no room left in Peter’s body, but it takes over anyways, and it feels _so good_. 

Peter’s nerves light up and he comes again, and it makes every other orgasm feel tiny and insignificant—like this is the first time he’s ever come in his life. He feels on fire, body flooding with pleasure that’s never been so intense or so _satisfying_ on such a primal level, feeling Beck’s come shooting off inside him. His back arches as much as Beck’s body will let him, his entire figure rigid and shaking and if his gasp-turned-cry hadn’t been choked off by the overwhelming influx of stimulation and rapture then he’d be screaming. 

The sheer _relief_ at finally getting a knot inside him, the _relief_ he feels as he comes, coupled with the mind blowing orgasm cause Peter to pass out for real. 

[ Quentin’s never come like this before in his entire fucking _life_. It’s a nearly hysterical delectation that consumes every fiber of his body. Peter underneath him, making those sounds and tensing up and clinging to him, throwing his head back, back making a bow that just pushes himself impossibly harder down against Beck’s dick, the boy’s entire being clenching down around his knot—it’s too much, it’s _perfect_. 

The kid feels perfect around him and the sensation of how right and incredible it all is stems from Beck’s core. It sets his skin on fire in a way that just gets him higher, and after teasing and exploring Peter’s body and restraining himself for so long (despite the omega’s desperation, despite the intoxicating scent and how badly his alpha wanted to just _take _), finally getting to knot the boy is a fucking ethereal experience. 

He wants to bite him. 

He wants to bite him so bad, he wants to sink his teeth into Peter’s mating gland so desperately.

He wants to bond with him, to claim him _so bad_, but he knows he shouldn’t. He isn’t sure why or how he knows he shouldn’t—because the part of his mind in between alpha and normal Beck, where logic is contaminated with instinct, is trying to convince him to, arguing against every reason Quentin’s left side brain can think of to not mate the kid by saying he can work around it: adapt or just kill the source of the objection (however literal is necessary).

Every fraction of his body is begging to give into the blind alpha-fueled compulsion and make Peter _his_, but he knows he _can’t_. He can’t because of the one reason his desperate, partial-coherence can’t find a solution to—which is that Peter would hate him for it.

(His alpha argues that they could love that resistance out of the boy, show him why being Beck’s mate isn’t just ok but _good_—but even as high as Beck is on Peter’s heat and the incredible sex, and even as blind as he is with finally knotting and coming, he still knows that that idea is primitive and unrealistic.)

Peter is passed out and high on a primal satisfaction and Beck can barely see through the haze of everything, but he knows he can’t claim the boy.

It’s so frustrating that he growls as he bites down on Peter’s neck, higher up, sucking hard on the porcelain skin and trying to leave as dark and deep of a mark as he can in a way that’s purely pitiful, because he knows that even without enhanced healing, it’ll fade. 

Every mark he leaves on Peter’s body will fade and he is absolutely _pitiful_ in how much he hates that. How it makes him bite and suck and lick desperately over every inch of the omega’s neck and shoulders that he can reach while avoiding that one precious spot. 

Peter’s mating gland mocks him as he leaves dark, angry hickey after hickey on the sweet, previously unblemished skin around it. But he keeps going, completely littering what he has access to of the boy’s (soft and pretty and innocent and undeserving to be the collateral damage of Beck’s internal conflict) body with love bites until the initial wave of _claim_ has passed and he can breathe again. ]

Peter wakes up to Quentin gently licking his neck and upper chest. The older man gives a light kiss to his sternum before looking up and meeting Peter’s exhausted, hooded eyes. 

The younger smiles in a loopy way, at long (not really that long—it’s been less than three hours) last feeling satiated. Beck’s knot rescued him from the unrelenting struggle of his heat and he gazes with a daze at the man’s face. 

Quentin’s never looked so kind or peaceful before. He even looks a little apologetic, guilty wrinkles on his slightly furrowed eyebrows and compassionate eyes. Peter reaches up and touches the crease of his brow, smoothing away anything that isn’t content on Beck’s expression.

The alpha smiles softly at him, one hand reaching up to cover Peter’s and guiding it to Beck’s mouth. He presses a kiss to the hero’s palm and breathes in slowly. It’s relaxing to watch Beck relax, and Peter closes his eyes again, content with their unspoken plan to just catch their breath. 

"Are you alright?" Beck asks quietly. The hero just nods in response. He is alright. He feels pretty fantastic, actually.

Peter isn’t sure how long they lay there. At some point Beck turns them to their side, Peter’s arms and legs unwinding from around him (sore and cramping from being so tense in one position, he notes) so he can lay tucked into the man’s embrace. 

The smell of arousal is fading, slowly and slightly, but fading nonetheless. It’s replaced with satisfaction and content on both the alpha and omega’s parts. 

But this is Peter, so obviously nothing peaceful can last. 

In what’s probably a combination of sweat cooling, Beck’s knot soothing his heat, and the wave ending—Peter shivers. His spine runs cold and goosebumps break out onto his back and he puts his hands against Beck’s chest to push himself as far away as he can get. 

_Fuck_. 

Oh _fuck_. 

[ Fuck. 

Peter is panicking.

He’s definitely panicking. ]

Peter’s going to freak out. 

He just has sex with Beck. He just—holy shit—had _sex_ with _Quentin Beck_.

He just got _knotted_ by fucking _Mysterio_. 

He has _Mysterio's knot inside him_.

They’re stuck together, Peter is, oh god, Peter doesn’t know where he is or what time it is, he doesn’t have his suit, he’s naked and exposed and completely vulnerable to Beck, and they’re fucking _stuck together_. Peter’s still quivering from the aftershocks and was trying to regulate his breathing but now he’s shaking and hyperventilating again.

He doesn’t know how much of his strength is with him right now and his suit is MIA and Mysterio’s dick is currently stuck inside him—_Peter’s going to fucking die_. 

“Hey, shh, easy-” _Mysterio_ (fuck!) begins, “easy, Peter,” _he told him his name,_ “you’re ok. You’re alright, you’re safe, I’m not going to hurt you. I promised, remember? I won’t hurt you,” the man whispers. 

[ It’s true. With the fog clearing, he wishes it wasn’t, but it’s true. Beck could never hurt Peter after this. Spider-Man or a sweet omega, naked and knotted in his bed or in their suits, fighting on the street—there’s no way he could ever harm Peter now. 

Which, _shit_, is actually pretty inconvenient. ]

“I have to leave, I need to- fuck, how do you get out of this-?! Why would you- shit, Beck, I-” Peter stumbles through the words and wiggles around, trying to see if he could get Beck’s dick out of him (and _god_ that thought alone might send him to therapy), but all he manages to do is make himself cry in over-sensitivity and confirm that no, there’s no getting out of this. 

“Shh, calm down, you’re going to hurt yourself if you keep that up, baby. Just relax.” Beck’s voice is annoyingly soothing and Peter forces himself not to cry, quavering in place, mind racing to figure out an escape. 

[ Quentin has always found the scent of scared omega to be rather distasteful and mostly just uncomfortable. 

Now, Peter’s fear in the air is like literal bile in Beck’s mouth. ]

“Aw, I know, I know, just breathe, honey. Just breathe. I won’t hurt you, sweetheart, oh, come on, you don’t have to be afraid of me, I swear—deep breaths, Peter, that’s it,” Quentin says. Peter’s stomach is doing funny things and the edge in Beck’s voice is almost enough to set him off before he realizes the lilt is probably from suppressing pain at how much Peter’s panic-tense body is accidentally clenching down. 

It’s even hurting Peter, who reluctantly finds himself without any other options but attempting to regulate his breathing. 

Beck rubs his back and kisses the crown of his head as he works on calming down. When he’s relaxed enough that the knot doesn’t hurt, bringing back that now terrifying and infuriating sensation of satisfied relief, the older man murmurs into Peter’s hair. 

“There you go, see? That wasn’t so hard. You’re doing great, baby, just keep breathing. Yeah, pretty thing, that’s it. Being so good for me.” 

Peter shivers at the words and it’s not because he’s cold. It makes his face burn in humiliation and he picks his poison, nuzzling into is hands on Beck’s chest so he can hide the pink flush from the older man. 

Beck just smiles against his hair and hums in content. 

“Mmm, such a good boy, honey. Took it so well, taking my knot like the perfect little omega you are. So, so perfect for me,” Beck coos softly. He dips his head even as Peter bites back a whimper at the praise, nosing at the younger’s temple.

He wants to tell him to shut up, or tell him off, but there's something behind his ribs that is preening at the words.

Beck wraps an arm tighter around Peter and shifts him up, the older man’s head dropping lower until he can lick at Peter’s still swollen pulse point. 

Quentin’s tongue on the sensitive spot and the onslaught of calming pheromones in the air make Peter melt. He relaxes into Beck’s embrace with deep breaths and heavy eyes. It’s like magic—like a spell. Peter falls under easily. 

It’s ok. He’ll just wait. He can’t get out right now anyways and that’s ok, because the alpha is being nice. When the knot deflates, then Peter can leave, and Beck promised not to hurt him, so that will be ok, too. 

He’ll just rest right now. 

Laying in Beck’s arms is like being in a blanket of cozy warmth and comforting smells. Peter feels spent and sleepy and good, and Beck just keeps lapping softly at his mating gland with a smooth tongue, the sensation soothing right down to the bone. Quentin’s hand rubs Peter’s back and the hero can hear the older man’s steady heartbeat louder than the voice in his head that’s trying to set off alarms. 

It’s alright. 

Peter doesn’t remember passing out, but consciousness backhands him when it returns. 

There’s morning sunlight streaming through the gaps in the curtains over the windows, reflecting off wooden floors and mahogany furniture and peach cream colored walls, bathing the entire bedroom in a refreshing warm yellow glow. The bed looks bigger than it felt last night. 

It’s a pretty ordinary looking room save for the desk with a bunch of monitors and laptops on it, all running numbers and code, and the two super-suits flung carelessly on the floor. There are slippers in the corner and a jacket over the back of a chair and a clean mirror above a dresser on the opposite side of the room. 

None of this is particularly startling or alarming—not even the full force of the realization of exactly where Peter is. 

What shocks him awake is the unforgiving restlessness in his bones and how his skin burns and he feels wetness between his legs. 

[ A while after Peter fell asleep, Beck’s knot had gone down and he was able to slip out of the boy, choosing to ignore the lewd sounds. 

He’d cleaned up in the bathroom and then brought a warm, damp cloth to Peter, wiping away as much sweat and come and slick as he could. The kid was completely exhausted so there wasn’t much chance of him waking up, but Beck was still excessively gentle and slow moving as he cleaned the boy. 

He’d worked around Peter’s limp body to strip the very ruined comforter from the bed, replacing it with the spare, shutting off the light and laying under it. He pulled Peter close and the kid immediately snuggled up to him, nuzzling into Beck’s shoulder and curling around him. 

It was cute and felt right and Beck didn’t really think about anything else when he fell asleep (even if the sun would be rising soon). 

He was just pulling toast from the toaster and trying to find the protein bars he knows he has when the smell of slick and heat hit him. He tried to ignore it, because it wasn’t strong yet and Peter was obviously still asleep, but when the scent suddenly flared up and tripled in force, Beck left the food in the kitchen. 

He doesn’t even pause in the doorway. As soon as he sees Peter propped up on the bed, eyes wide, blanket fallen down to cover his lap and exposing his torso, where Beck’s angry, desperate hickeys are already almost faded—he lunges to the mattress. ]

Peter reaches out to Beck as the man clambers onto the bed, instantly moving to wrap his arms around broad shoulders and seek out a kiss. Beck pushes his tongue into Peter’s mouth and lays the younger down, head on the pillow, grabbing Peter’s thighs and knees, lifting and pushing the pliable limbs to make a comfortable place for Beck to kneel between his legs. 

[ He arranges Peter’s supple body like it’s nothing and blesses every god he can’t name or doesn’t believe in for the beautiful, pliant creature on his bed. ]

Apparently, whatever reservations Beck was holding before are gone the second time. 

[ After losing control as he got close last night, Beck doesn’t think he could regain it or restrain himself if he wanted to.

He also doesn’t actually want to. 

Whatever told him that he would break Peter if he didn’t keep a grip on himself the first time is gone, replaced by an instinctual knowledge that an omega in heat is _made_ to withstand an alpha in rut, and he surrenders to the primal urge to fuck the kid into the sheets. 

The second time is fast and rough from the start. Beck only fingers him for the privilege of toying with the boy, making him beg for it, watching the kid force himself to accept Quentin’s teasing—out of genuine naivety or the desire to obey the alpha, Beck doesn’t know or care. 

He gets Peter to ride him at first (because there’s no way in _hell_ he would pass up the opportunity to see that) but eventually pulls him off and flips him over onto his stomach, taking him from behind, holding his wrists down and loving the way Peter grips the sheets so tight they tear, loving the way he mewls miserably when Beck’s thrusts force him to rut against the bed, making him come on the covers over and over (and _over _) again. 

He has to lavish the boy’s shoulders and back in aggressive, nearly anguished hickeys again to stop from claiming him, but his creamy skin looks so pretty decorated with Beck’s marks that he doesn’t care. 

Quentin carries Peter to a bath after, because by this point they need real bathing, and coddles him the entire time, cooing at Peter’s sleepiness and covering his body in kisses. Peter falls asleep after, and Beck lets him nap on the couch naked save for the towel he’s wrapped in while Quentin washes the bedding.

He’s pretty tired still, too, but no where near as spent as his omega must be. Still, when he lays Peter down on the freshly laundered sheets, he climbs in and passes out with the boy for another hour or two. 

Beck eats lunch in the afternoon and pointedly does not think about the kid in his bed or the consequences of what they’re doing (what _he’s_ doing, really). He brings water and the protein bars he found hiding in the back of his cupboard to sit on the bedside table, and eventually he gives in to the notion that he has nothing better to do other than cuddle Peter (which is a flagrant lie, but he’s not in the mood to deny himself this). 

He reminds his better judgement that he needs to make this last. ] 

Peter wakes up some time in the afternoon. There’s no sudden cold descent from the warmth or fogginess of heat, so he must have caught himself already in between waves. 

To his relief, he and Beck are completely unconnected. 

To his horror, they’re both still naked and he’s wrapped around the man. 

Beck is already looking down at him with a smirk when Peter works up the courage to look up. 

He freezes. Even without the influence of an active heat, he hasn’t eaten in probably nearly twenty-four hours and he’s exhausted from the waves he’s already hit (and the two rounds of sex). 

(Speaking of the sex—his ass fucking _hurts_.)

Which means he’s tired and weak and he has no idea what tricks Beck could play, plus he’s _still naked_, and he’s not sure if he could escape right now. 

Beck is still smirking at him, probably watching all of those realizations run across Peter’s expressive face. 

“You’re cute.” The older man states. He kisses Peter’s forehead and smiles against it. Peter’s about to shove him away, non-existent escape plan be damned, when suddenly Beck is holding a… protein bar. 

A protein bar? 

He waves it in front of Peter’s confused expression. 

“You should eat. I’d offer you more substantial food or a proper meal, but, I’m not sure how long we’ll have until the next wave hits you.” 

Peter wants to refuse and fling himself out of the bed, but his stomach rumbling loudly and his oh-so inconvenient super metabolism have other ideas.

Still. This seems. Shady.

“I promised I wouldn’t hurt you, Peter. Multiple times, actually. I mean it. Besides, you’ve been incapacitated in my bedroom for over twelve hours, if I was going to harm you, don’t you think I would’ve done it by now?” Beck sighs, tearing the corner of the protein bar’s package with his teeth. He holds it out to Peter and the boy can’t argue with that logic or his own hunger. 

He eats the bar. And then he eats the other three Beck brought him and also downs the water. Beck just chuckles and puts a hand over Peter’s, telling him to slow down before he makes himself sick. 

And then Peter’s sitting there, naked in Beck’s bed, holding the sheets around his waist and avoiding eye contact, but also avoiding looking at Beck at all, because the man is relaxed and lounging back and that sheet is _so low_ on his waist. 

Beck leans forward and Peter jolts back, but the older man is unfazed, putting a hand on Peter’s back and moving to look in front the younger, head dipped down and facing up, trying to get Peter to look at him. 

“Do you want to stay for the rest of your heat?” 

Peter freezes up again and whips his head around. He stares at Beck for a few seconds before he realizes that yes, Quentin seriously just asked him that. He shakes his head no even though he kind of wants to say yes, and he isn’t sure if that’s logical Peter genuinely deeming Beck the best option here or omega Peter really wanting this alpha. 

“Are you sure?” Beck presses. His hand is moving to wrap around Peter’s side furthest from him and pulling the hero closer. Peter doesn’t fight him as much as he’s pretty sure he can. 

He nods his head, though. 

But then Beck starts putting out those comforting pheromones again, and they make Peter feel so warm and secure and good, and he pulls Peter close, cupping the younger’s cheek with his other hand. He moves forward and Peter lets him. Lets Beck start to slowly shower his face is kisses, holding him gently but firmly and rubbing his back. 

Beck’s hand follows the path of the hero’s spine down to where Peter is _still naked_, oh fuck, and then Quentin’s fingers drift teasingly lower, and he asks again, “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay? Would you like alpha to help you through the rest?” 

Peter is clinging to the slivers of sanity that tell him this man is his enemy, he’s hanging on as tight as he can, but then the hand on his face moves to his hip and swings him over, out from under the sheets and into a position straddling Beck’s thighs. 

The kisses continue and scent gets heavier and two of Beck’s fingers slip inside him without warning, immediately rubbing skillfully and searching out his sweet spot. Peter’s skin starts to buzz and his head gets cloudy and this time it isn’t even scary or bad, he just lets it happen, falls metaphorically into the haze and literally slumps against Beck’s chest. 

He moans and nods where his head is resting on Beck’s shoulder. Quentin looks down at him and grins softly, humming into Peter’s hairline. 

“Words, baby,” he requests quietly. Peter can almost, _almost_ hear the hint of smugness in Beck’s voice as he thinks back to the first time, early in the morning.

He tries to push back on Beck’s fingers and looks up to meet the man's eyes. The room is too hot and too heavy once more, smooth and rich and filling up the hero’s brain.

[ Peter looks two seconds from crying again, and he whimpers and bites his lip in a way that’s so cute and so sultry all at once—he’s adorable and sin on legs (well, right now he’s braced on Beck’s legs, actually). 

It’s probably cruel to keep demanding verbal responses from the boy, especially when he doesn’t stand a chance against his enhanced heat and Beck’s instigation. 

But the way his sweet, sweet voice wavers, hearing him consent and beg aloud for what Beck knows the kid will probably try to kill him for when this is over—it’s just too good to pass up. 

<strike>He has to make this last</strike>. ]

Beck looks different. Peter isn’t sure he’s ever seen the man look this way, this whole situation included. He looks _soft_, so kind and harmless, and _so_ turned on, he can feel the hard proof under him through the sheets, and so open and so ragingly _possessive_.

Peter doesn’t know what to do other than give a breathless sigh at the fingers working inside him, moving forward to kiss Beck, who kisses him back with pure want, and whisper against the man’s lips. 

“Please, alpha.”

[ Beck smiles. Something hurts in his heart but he’ll deal with it later, when he doesn’t have Peter to take care of (though, after everything that's happened already and in anticipation of what happens next, he'd rather there never come a time when he can't be with the kid like this). ]

Quentin pecks Peter on the lips again and removes his fingers, settling guiding hands on the hero’s hips. His voice is soft when he says, “Lay down, baby.” 

Peter does.

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve never written anything with this many consent issues before, hope it wasn’t Awful. <3
> 
> (this is irrelevant + just a life update) Also I’m finally going to start training for this new job tomorrow and it pays a lot more but it’s also abt 3x as many hours + my next semester of school starts on monday so. We’ll see what happens to my ability to post content in a timely manner :D >>> that was really passive aggressive, I promise this is all actually really good and exciting for me, it’s just also zapping my free time which is :( but I decompress by writing fics so I will keep doing that <3
> 
> p.s. if you think there are any other tags or warnings I should add to this lemme know <3


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